


the way you look tonight

by janie_tangerine



Category: Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Porn, Bittersweet, Bottom Han Solo, Clothing Kink, I Don't Even Know, M/M, POV Second Person, PROBABLY IDEK, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing Clothes, The Author Regrets Everything, han needs a hug tbqh, past han/q'ira, thank the deities for lando's cape closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 11:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17866760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which Han ends up wearing some of Lando's clothes.





	the way you look tonight

**Author's Note:**

> ... I started this thing in damned MAY or june when I watched solo asws, then I decided it wasn't cooperating and left it in the middle, then today I couldn't finish anything else I started and I needed a distraction so I figured WHY THE HELL NOT. I finished it. I honestly don't know what the hell I was thinking in may but I guess that movie inspired me more angst than I thought it originally had because re-reading it now it's way sadder than I had thought it was back then but hey anyway HERE WE GO HAVE SOME MINDLESS SW PORN WITH ANGST before I go back to the scheduled asoiaf stuff I should finish. /o\
> 
> Also: nothing belongs to me, the title is from Frank Sinatra and the original prompt was on the kinkmeme solo asws section but this has gone so far off the original premise and it's been so long, idek if it's worth linking it. Anyway, I'll saunter vaguely downwards and leave it here. *waves*

The thing about the capes when Q’ira wore them, you think later, as your ship soars into the sky, long after she’s out of your life forever, wasn’t that they looked great on her.

They did. But that wasn’t the point.

It wasn’t that she wore them like she was born to wear such fine garments.

She was. But that wasn’t the point.

There were two things, about the capes.

One: they were _nice_. You had felt the one she had worn when you kissed. It was soft, _good_ silk, of that bright blue color that suited her so well, finely stitched, finely cut. It must have cost more than the money it took you to buy food for six months on Corellia, or maybe more than that. It’s something you could have never dreamed of owning back in the day, not when your parents were alive, not after. And Lando had so many of them, your head had spun for a while before you forgot about the capes and focused back on her again.

Two: you could see her in one of them, or _all_ of them. Q’ira? She was meant to wear fine clothing and silks that fell on her perfectly, falling over her shoulders and legs and hips, to look like the princess she should have been, going with that soft, wavy hair of hers. That cape looked wonderful on her, and it should have, because she was born to wear such garments. You? _Please_. You had dreamed that one day you’d make enough money to dress her in silks and soft, refined wools and warm corduroys and bright velvets, because that’s what she deserved, but someone got there before you could, whether you wanted it or not, and there wasn’t much you could do about it. You were too late. Of course you were. In retrospective, it doesn’t really surprise you, and why would it?

You, on the other side? You never imagined it. It felt wrong. After the Empire, after the mud you waded through for _years_ , after you forgot the last time you wore something that wasn’t hand me downs or scavenged clothing, you can’t even see yourself in anything but. You were never made for such luxuries, and you’ve always known that. But you _had_ envisioned a life where _she_ would have it.

That, you know now, is not in your cards. It never was, and maybe it’s the same thing with the Falcon. When you _didn’t_ win her, she was new and spotless and bright white and out of one of those ads he would see on Corellia, up in the sky, advertising buying one to fly towards some other, better Empire colony. You only won her when after your twelve Parsec run she turned battered and had to be patched up and wasn’t so white or spotless anymore.

You think, _will it happen with everything I touch? Does everything have to be somewhat ruined to be_ mine _?_

You don’t know that. You can’t know that.

But that’s fair, you think. At least, now you do have a ship (ruined or not, she’s perfect to you and she feels perfect as you pilot it, and it’s what matters) and a lifelong friend, which is more than you ever thought you’d have since the moment that door shut between you and her.

It’s enough, you think, or tell yourself. It really is.

——

“Don’t you ever wear anything nicer?”

Lando’s question wasn’t what you had expected.

Since you won the ship back, you _have_ teamed up on and off. Lando’s always tried to win it back. You never agreed to bet it again and he seems to respect you for it. You’ve just pulled off a straightforward job and you’ve just split the money, and now you’re in this cantina on the Outer Rim planet they were set to deliver your cargo and you’re drinking and he asks _that_ and —

“What? My clothes _are_ nice,” you reply. They are. They’re worn, sure, and they’re old and they’ve softened a lot for how much you used them, but they’re serviceable, and so what if the cloth is rough and not finely stitched but they’re serviceable? They’re kind of like you, after all.

They fit you. You made peace with it.

“Never said they didn’t. And that wasn’t what I asked you.”

You shrug. “No, then, I guess. Why?”

Lando stares at you for a long, long moment, and you think he might be looking at your mouth as he takes a sip from his glass. It’s brandy — nice brandy. You both had two rounds of it. You’re both at that point where you’re buzzed and definitely feeling the alcohol but neither of you is drunk, and maybe that’s why he’s asking. Or maybe not.

“Just asking. You’d look good in some nicer stuff, that’s all.”

You laugh. “Yeah, not really. Not my style.”

Though it was hers. And Lando’s, of course. Not _yours_.

“I bet you’re wrong,” he grins.

“And how would you settle this bet?”

He smiles. “You’re my build and my height. My ship’s right next to yours. I can lend you a couple things to prove the damned point.”

You _hadn’t_ thought he’d go as far as that. Or that he’d invite you over — that’s never happened even if you did work together more than once, since the fated card game. But he sounds sincere, and maybe sober you’d have said no, but you aren’t sober. Not now.

“Why not? Costs me nothin’.”

Lando grins openly, white pearly _perfect_ teeth showing, and for a moment your stomach clenches on itself — you have _eyes_ and Lando’s easy on them, on anyone’s, and you didn’t try to hide it when you two met for the first time. You have no idea if Lando’s caught on it or if he just flirts with any human or droid he runs into, and you never asked.

Not that you’re in the same league as he is, anyway.

——

You follow him to his ship — it’s brand new, too, and while it’s not the Falcon, it still has a large, serviceable wardrobe, with all the capes and shirts and trousers and boots perfectly lined up.

“Let’s see,” Lando says, going through his capes, then looking at you. _Really_ looking at you. You feel kind of scrutinized for a hot second, but then again he has to pick clothes, right?

“You _would_ look good in browns,” Lando finally says. “Not _that_ common.”

“Everybody wears brown,” you object.

“Sure, but looking _good_ in it? Like, _really_ good? That’s an entire other matter, baby,” he winks, and then goes to the end of the wardrobe, leaving you to wonder all over again if he just calls _everyone_ like that or just people he likes. You don’t know which of the two you hope for.

He comes back with a bundle of cloth in his arms.

“There,” he says, dropping them in your hands. “Put these on. Then come back.”

You nod and get out of the wardrobe and into the nearby bedroom. You take a look at the clothes. He gave you a pair of brown corduroy trousers the same shade as your hair, more or less, sturdy but _elegant_ , with a stylish, clean cut, and a soft silk shirt of a lovely shade of cream, hand-stitched and finely put together, with pearl buttons. Shit, it’s worth more than your entire wardrobe put together, probably.

Your hands shake as they button it up after you get off your clothes and boots. It fits you, maybe it’s a bit loose but not that much, and when you look in the mirror, you can’t recognize yourself. The trousers aren’t as tight as your usual, and they’re very comfortable other than stylish, and that shirt — you immediately look down at your bare feet. It’s just so _different_ from your usual, you don’t know if you can see yourself in it for a minute longer without feeling like you should take it off.

Which is ridiculous. It shouldn’t matter.

Still —

If you think of the bruises that stayed on you for weeks after the one time Proxima caught you wearing better clothes than usual that you had stolen from a bunch that you were supposed to deliver her, it just doesn’t feel right.

You never looked like _this_. You have a distinct feeling this is not how you’re supposed to look.

Still. You don’t take them off.

You leave the room and move back into the wardrobe.

“Look at that,” Lando says. “I was right. Get here, I’m not done.”

“No?”

“The most important detail is missing.”

You walk towards the mirror. He’s standing in front of it with — with one of those capes in his hands, of a warm chestnut shade, pretty much the same as your trousers and hair. You touch it. It’s pure silk, soft and finely stitched all over again, definitely custom made, the hems embroidered in gold thread that manages to _not_ be tacky.

“I don’t think —” You start.

“Just stand there, won’t you,” Lando interrupts, slipping the cape around your shoulders, closing it with a small, square gold clasp.

“Huh,” he says, stepping back. “I was _totally_ right. Look at you. _Way_ better than your usual.” He steps to the side. You look into the mirror.

_Oh._

You can start to see why Lando favors these things so much — just wearing one makes you look like one of those heroes from those cheap holovids you used to watch with the other kids back on Corellia once in a while, when someone could get one. It stops just above your bare feet, which makes you look — not exactly _heroic_ , but you’re not a hero, are you? You’d have gone with the Resistance if you had been.

Still. With the proper pair of boots — it _would_ work.

Fuck. _All_ this clothing is so _soft_ , you don’t know what to do with it. Still —

“Fine,” you say, “you win this one. I look good in that.” It’s true. You do. “I guess I’ll go change now, if —”

“Slow down,” Lando interrupts. “I didn’t say you had to change now, did I?”

 _What_?

“I — I shouldn’t?”

Lando _stares_ at you, and you hold it, thinking that he has lovely dark eyes that _thankfully_ don’t resemble _hers_ at all. For a moment, you think, _do our clothes match or what_ , because now that he takes notice, Lando’s wearing light gray trousers and a cloak of the same color, with a hood, and a dark blue shirt underneath, so it’s some kind of direct contrast to yours, and you want to ask, _did you match us on purpose_ , but then Lando takes a step forward, his hands touching the lapels of your cloak, right over your chest.

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “If you look good in them, why should I want you to take them off _now_?”

You look up at him, raising your eyes from his fingers, meeting his stare. He’s closer now. Way closer.

“I thought you wanted to prove a point,” you whisper.

“I did,” he says, “but what if I _might_ like you in this getup?”

“Why, you don’t like me out of it? I’m hurt,” you joke, even if maybe you’re a bit more serious than you’d usually be, but after — after _she_ left when she told him — when she _told him_ —

“I thought you _knew_ I _hated_ you, baby,” Lando quips back, smirking, another flash of pearly white teeth showing against his dark skin.

You suck in a breath. “You call _baby_ just about everyone or just people you _hate_?”

He laughs. “And what about _you_?”

You don’t. You had called Qi’Ra like that once in a while when you still were on Corellia, though not _that_ much, she wasn’t overtly fond of it. You have called like that a few girls you flirted with before you and her became a thing, and a few guys, surely no one when you were with the Empire, and _him_ , so _no_ , you don’t, neither just about everyone nor people you _hate_.

You clear your throat. You wish you could sound as smooth as he does right now — maybe three months ago you would have.

Three months ago weren’t _now_.

“Neither,” you say, your hands moving up to Lando’s wrists.

You don’t push them away from the lapels of the cloak.

“Look at that,” Lando says, “guess I wasn’t seeing things.”

“What —” You start, but never finished, because a moment later his hands have dragged you forward by the cape’s lapels.

His mouth is on yours, and for a moment you don’t know what to do but then you kiss him back, letting him press you against the wall opposite the capes, your hands moving down to his waist as one of his goes behind your neck and the other still holds on to the cape, and you had thought it would be an angry kiss, and he would’ve been right.

It’s not.

It’s slow, not exactly refined, and you both smell a bit like brandy and it’s obvious that neither of you is completely sober, but it’s almost easy the way his tongue slips into yours and the way he’s pressing up against you feels good, and maybe you kind of wanted it since you saw him playing cards but only stopped at flirting back with him because you were still thinking you might get her back and you’re not the kind of man who puts his foot in two shoes.

Well. That’s not a problem anymore, is it?

“I wasn’t seeing things, then,” he grins, leaning back.

Any other time, you’d have found a comeback, probably a witty one, but any other time you wouldn’t be wearing his clothes and any other time you wouldn’t be wondering _what happened to her, of course I wasn’t enough to make her stay, then again if only I had been faster maybe we would have both gone through that door,_ and right now you aren’t really in the mood for witty comebacks.

“No,” you just say, “and I tend to call like _that_ people I _don’t_ hate.”

“Interesting,” Lando says, leaning back, looking at you. Again. As he likes what he sees.

Well, _you_ like what you see, too, but you still can’t quite figure out if he likes _you_ , or you _in his clothes_ , and what exactly does that change.

You suddenly feel like that thought sobered you up, and still —

You don’t want to move. Actually, you want him to kiss you again.

“What? Seems kind of obvious to me,” you say, and you hate how you aren’t sounding as sure as you’d like.

“You know, it’s almost cute,” he replies, “ _baby,_ ” he says, his voice dropping lower, _lower_ , and you feel your stomach double over but not in a bad way, and you wish your hands hadn’t shaken as you heard it, so you kiss him again before he can notice, and what if you _like_ it if he calls you like that, even if he uses it for everyone?

(Or for the people he hates? You don’t know. You don’t. It doesn’t matter.)

“I’m not _cute_ ,” you argue as you lean back, though it comes out a lot weaker than you’d like for it to be.

“You haven’t told me to stop calling you _that_ yet.”

Smug asshole.

He wants you to just say it, you figure. Thing is — you’ve got nothing to lose, honestly, and who even cares? You’re here wearing his clothes and wishing they felt like they belonged on you, too, for a moment, and he’s still looking at you as if he likes what he sees.

If only _you_ did.

“Say,” Lando interrupts that chain of thoughts without suspecting it, most likely, pressing up _closer_ , “you don’t go out much, do you?”

“Define _that_ ,” you tell him, not quite getting what he’s aiming at. You do _go out_ plenty, if by that you mean running jobs and smuggling shit, but you’re somewhat sure that’s not the point here.

“Oh, I don’t know. Hit a few cantinas without looking for a job or cheating other people at cards —”

“Says _you_ ,” you snort.

“Offer people drinks, maybe dance with them a bit, the usual.”

You laugh. “Then no. There was no _going out_ on Corellia, unless you consider going out at night to see if you could find something useful in the trash, I guess. After I left, I spent three years in the Empire’s army because I wanted to find _her_. And I left the army just to end up on your path, so _no_ , I don’t _go out often_.”

“Hm. Fair enough.” You don’t know what he’s considering but you hope he’s not feeling sorry for you or anything of the kind because that’s so _not_ what you want or what you need — fair, you don’t _know_ what you want or need but you know what you _don’t_ , and that’s certainly on the list.

But he’s still staring at you the way he did before, just before you kissed —

“Move over,” he says, grabbing your arm under that cape and dragging you out of the closet, pressing a few buttons on a panel nearby, and a moment later, there’s no silence anymore and — is that jatz music? Possibly.

“Seriously?” You ask, not knowing if you should laugh or flip him off.

“You need to live a little,” Lando grins back, and _why_ is it making your knees weak, again?, and it’s ridiculous, you really don’t dance as a general rule, it’s not like it was a common thing where you come from, but kriffing hell, Lando’s holding a hand out and the music’s smooth and _warm_ the way it is in the nice cantinas, and —

You could.

You _could_.

Good thing you’re still halfway drunk, you decide as you slip his hand into his.

“Kriffing hell — I don’t even have shoes,” you say, kind of pathetically, as he moves a hand around your waist.

“You don’t need them. Differently from yours, my floor is _clean_ ,” Lando says, leading you along the hallway, twirling you over as you reach a common room that’s not as large as the Falcon’s but would work better for _this_ purpose. He presses closer, swaying, and you go along with him because really, you’ve never done this, what else are you supposed to go with?

“Also, you’re _definitely_ rough around the edges, but you haven’t stomped on my feet until now. There’s hope for you yet.”

“Thanks, now that makes a man feel better about himself,” you say, not quite looking at him —

“Hey, it’s a compliment,” he laughs, easily, the way you wish you could, twirling you around again as the cloak makes a motion around you, and for a moment you feel like you just walked out of some kind of holomovie even if it’s _ridiculous_ , but it feels nice and —

He’s pressed you up against the wall a moment later, hands on your shoulders. “You really have no idea, do you?” He asks, low but not so much that you don’t hear it over the music.

“‘Bout what?” You breathe against his mouth — he's _so close_ , so close —

“Never mind,” he says, and he kisses you again.

But not like before.

This is slow, and he’s taking his time, his tongue working its way inside your mouth, his teeth grasping at your bottom lip for a moment before releasing it and moving a hand behind your head, moving you closer, taking his time, as if it’s entirely worth it that he might, and so what if you might whine into his mouth before pressing up against him, and what if his hands move downwards and open your ( _his_ ) trousers very, very slowly?

His hands move back on your hips.

“First time?” He asks, grinning.

“Depends on how you mean it,” you say, not wanting to lie.

“As in?”

“Happening _to_ me? First time. Doing it to others? Pal, I had to eat on Corellia and stealing shit didn’t cover it all the time,” you say, looking at him, wondering, _is he going to leave_ —

He drops to his knees instead.

"Baby," he says as they hit the floor, “how about you _chill_ about that? There’s a first time for everyone.”

Thing is, it _does_ sound like an amazing prospect, right now.

“Do your best, _baby_ ,” you tell him back, and he _winks_ before pushing down your trousers at once, taking care to not ruin them, but of course _Lando_ wouldn’t.

Now, you have no idea what to expect because sad as it sounds, you and Q’ira never had the chance to go as far as _that_ , not without risking being found out, and _doing it_ — well, no one’s ever complained, but you never exactly went and thought about whether you enjoyed it or not.

Lando is half-grinning, though, and licks his lips for a moment before opening his mouth, and then he has them around your dick, and — fuck, _fuck_ , you have to stop yourself from moving too much because he’s apparently _way_ more experienced than you at this and he’s taken you in his mouth halfway at once.

(You never quite could manage _that_.)

You _were_ hard before, how could you not be when he was pressing you close and you were wearing _his_ clothes and you’ve always liked how he smiles, and this time he was aiming it at _you_ —

But now, _now_ you can feel blood rushing downwards, boiling hot as Lando’s tongue swirls around the head before he takes _more_ of your cock in and oh, _oh_ , now he has swallowed almost all of it as he starts sucking you off, slow at first, and if you only moved your hips you’d be fucking his throat but you don’t want to, not when he’s starting to pick up some speed, his hands always grasping your hips.

Your own had been stuck to your sides, but as he takes you in deeper and sucks you off harder, they find their way to his hair, your fingers finding the curls in his hair, not tugging but just staying there, and at some point you can’t help moaning out loud once, twice, thrice as Lando moves back, his right hand moving behind your dick, his thumb stroking there back and forth as you think fleetingly, _he’s enjoying it as much as I am_ , it’s obvious from the look in his eyes whenever yours meet them. His tongue runs under the head of your dick again and _again_ , and the noises he’s making around it are making your blood running even hotter than before, and _fuck_ but you hadn’t realized it could feel this good, that his mouth could feel so hot and wet and his tongue, too, and it doesn’t even matter that Lando looks like someone who’s taking great pride in his skills because at this point he’d be right to.

You don’t know how long it goes on, maybe a lot, maybe not, but you feel it when you’re about to spill, you can feel it building in your veins and your entire body and your fingers are shaking and he probably can feel it, and you expect him to move back because you only ever remember how you _hated_ when people would keep your head there and say they wouldn’t pay up if you _didn’t_ swallow —

But he doesn’t move when you tug lightly at his hair, and not even when you about scream his name as you come inside his mouth, and at that point you’re too busy seeing stars not unlikely the ones you dreamed of reaching when you were stuck on Corellia, but when you breathe in and come back to the ground he’s moved back and his lips are sticky with come and he’s licking it off them as if he’s _entirely_ too glad to do it.

Your heart beats faster and _faster_ at the sight, feeling your cock stir in interest for a moment even if you just came, _damn it_ , and he’s entirely too smooth as he raises to his feet from the ground. His trousers aren’t even stained. Shit, the floor really is clean.

He looks down in appreciation, then up, until his eyes reach yours.

“So,” he drawls, “I see I haven’t lost my game.”

You should try to tell him to fuck off.

Somehow, you’re not so eager to.

“What if you haven’t?” You reply, your own voice sounding the exact opposite of how you’d want to sound.

( _Smooth. Sure. Suave. Confident. And so on. You had thought you learned. But maybe not well enough._ )

“I don’t know,” he goes on, moving closer and _closer_ and oh, he’s warm. Warmer than you had imagined. “That’s usually the preliminaries, where I come from. I could show you a nice time, or I could let you go back to my sadly former ship.”

You should go back to the Falcon. You _should_.

But his hands are warm and _he_ is warm and you have been more than usual lately, but not _enough_ , and if you left you should probably give him back those clothes and maybe it’s stupid and useless, not that it’s any news, but you want to keep them a bit more, a bit longer — they don’t make you feel _like_ him, you know you could never be and it’s not who you are, but it feels a bit like he’s all around you regardless of whether he’s touching you or not and it seems like out of everyone he’s ran into in his entire life only _two_ people stuck around for good, more or less, and _he_ is one of them as much as he doesn’t stick around _exactly_ , and you don’t want to give it up for now —

Not yet —

You shake your head.

“What if I don’t want to go back? For now?”

He smirks. Your knees shake a bit.

“I never said you had to. The nice time is in the cards, if you want it.”

You breathe in, out, in, out.

“And what if I want it?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Lando says, moving closer, and wait, he _wanted you to ask_?

His hands reach up around the lapels of the cloak you’re wearing, dragging you slightly nearer.

And then —

“You know what,” he whispers, “This looks better on you than on me. I think I might just let you keep it, it’s not like I ever wore it.”

Your lips part — to thank him? to ask him _why_? you don’t know — but you say nothing because then his mouth is on yours again and it’s as warm and slow and thorough as before, and maybe you can taste some of that brandy you both had before or maybe _not_ —

But as he moves back from the wall and to his room and drags you with, inside his fancy room with fancy bed and silken sheets —

( _when you realized the bed on the Falcon had silken sheets on a double bed that was just for you you might have shed a few tears, but no one knows that and no one ever will_ )

— that you couldn’t dream of even looking at on Corellia, never mind sleeping on, never mind _belonging in_ , same as those beautiful, tailored clothes, except that as Lando slowly unbuttons your shirt, he says that you can _really_ keep it, damn it, and you just nod and thank him because right now your wit isn’t really cooperating.

You let him, his hands roaming over your shoulders and chest, as if he likes what he sees, and at least the Empire put some muscles on you and you’re not as skinny as you used to be back in the day, and you kind of want to take off his clothes, too, but you don’t know if you can or should so you let him do that, too, and then he leans down and kisses you again while his hands find your hips again, moving one of those soft, silken pillows underneath them, his fingers finding your dick again and stroking it until you’re hard all over again, not that it’d have taken much, and of course he has lube in his nightstand, you wouldn’t have doubted it.

Your trousers and the cape are long fallen on the ground as his fingers open you up slowly, so slowly, but it’s good because it doesn’t really hurt, not when he’s taking his time and murmuring about how much he likes the sight, and you think you’re blushing as he says, _I especially like how you look in_ my _bed_ , and by the time he’s sliding inside you, the way all slick, he doesn’t let you miss his fingers —

( _they’re softer than yours, less rough, less hardened, but then again you couldn’t really ever have the luxury of making most of your money by cheating at cards and seducing people, could you_?)

— because he’s right there and you can feel him moving, always so gently, as if he wants to _give_ something to you and not to take it only, and you’re moaning his name over and over as your fingertips grasp at his shoulders, your legs clenching behind his back, and you can see his eyes staring down into yours as he smiles and says that this is everything he had been picturing —

( _did he picture it? really? did he really think about doing this with_ you _of all people when he could have had anyone? what did you ever even do to make him want to? were you the only person who ever managed to win something off him that he cared so very deeply about? or maybe you’re just asking yourself questions that have no place existing and maybe he just likes you? oh, it would be nice if that was it, if it was that easy, but_ this _one man, having pictured having_ you _like this? you find it hard to believe, but could it be?_ )

— and then you decide it doesn’t matter because there’s that rush building through your blood and your bones, not exactly what you feel whenever you fly straight through the stars but similar enough that you recognize it for what it is, and it’s the nicest place you ever had sex in, and Lando’s fingers are sure and warm and slow as they run through your hair and he kisses you again, groaning as he gives a last push and buries himself inside you, and you wonder, _maybe he could never move_ , even if you know it’s wishful thinking and that at the end of the day the only things you will be sure you will have left of him will be the clothing and that cape —

( _things, you learned, tend to not leave or fail you or disappoint you either way; people always do_ )

but if there’s one thing you learned, just _one_ , is that it’s better to be sure of a few things than of nothing at all, in this galaxy.

So maybe you will only keep the cloak.

 _Not for now_ , though, and you smile back against his lips as you kiss him back.

At least, you think as your hands run across his back, _he_ doesn’t look ruined at all now, does he?

 

 

End.


End file.
